


Almost

by cynical21



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In tragedy, A Jedi Master is caught up in denial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost

**Author's Note:**

> As with almost everything I write, it is not for the weak of heart. Here be dragons, Mateys.

Almost

*************** ************ 

 

"This planet used to be truly beautiful, my young apprentice. A place rich in the Force, and teeming with an incredible variety of flora and fauna and remarkably free of scars inflicted in the name of progress. I came here, in my youth, with my own Master. We spent several weeks here, as I recall, mapping and observing the culture of the more primitive tribal societies that had arisen along the coastline. And deciding finally that there was little here to merit further intervention by the Republic. It was a primal paradise that should remain untouched by civilization." 

At this point in my narrative, I am forced to stifle a sigh. "Of course, that was before the discovery of the angissporium in the forests here. The value of the serum is beyond calculation, but the cost to this ecosystem - well, I guess I don't have to spell it out for you, do I? You can certainly see it for yourself." 

I wriggle a bit, trying to find a dryer spot in which to secure ourselves, as we await the rescue mission that even now draws near. It will be a while, of course, since the violence of the storm continues unabated and will certainly distort their sensors, and the Force, as well. 

_But, of course, you know that too - my very bright young padawan._

For a moment, I feel his disorientation, as he stirs and tries to reconnect with the reality of our circumstances, an effort which is almost certainly beyond him in his present state.

_We will simply have to be patient for a while longer._

I smile to realize that I'm not speaking aloud and that I'm expecting to be heard, which, ordinarily, would be a given. 

"But this is no ordinary moment, is it? Forgive me, young one. I'm spoiled, I think - too accustomed to taking your gifts for granted. But, given the size of the lump on your temple, I think it unlikely you're in any condition to be monitoring my thoughts. Here, let me turn you just a bit, so you can rest the side of your head just so, against my shoulder. Is that better?" 

"No, don't try to talk. I know it hurts. That was a terrific blow you took, and I don't want you to aggravate any internal injuries. You're very pale, you know, and your breathing is very rapid and shallow, so just relax and try to ignore the chaos outside. We're safe enough here, for the moment." 

He is looking up at me now; I can feel his gaze, although his face, in this watery light, is little more than a pale, blurred oval, but I observe with a small smile that there is nothing in this universe that could obscure the luminous brilliance of those eyes. They are almost too bright now - with a glitter like stars in hard vacuum - febrile, perhaps, and harsh with pain he cannot quite manage to channel into the Force. 

My own eyes are heavy, and I must fight off my growing weariness, as that horrible memory flares in my mind again. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that image - the semi-boneless silhouette of his body tumbling in a steep arc against the blinding glare of the shield generator's explosion, the image that imprinted itself in my consciousness, even as my eyelids slammed shut against the painful brilliance. Every time I close my eyes, even here in this miserable darkness, I see it still. 

And I remember what it bought - that last minute, Force-driven leap that allowed him to toss two tiny children to safety beyond a barrier wall and then launched him into that parody of a springboard arch. 

_Not his face!_ I remember thinking that as I leapt toward him. Isn't it strange that I should spare the time for such a thought? It's just a face, after all, although, according to common gossip, a remarkable one. In the extremely plebian words of one entranced young female padawan, a 'face to die for'. 

And, as it happens, it is not his face that has been consumed within the hungry maw of the flames, but his back and side, and one arm. I haven't been able to do much in the way of treatment; I have no medical supplies, and conditions are so primitive that I would undoubtedly do more harm than good if I tried to clean the wounds. 

So I have limited myself to trying to relieve his pain, to bathing him in the warmth of Force energy, to fending off the deadly, clammy embrace of shock, which reaches for him so relentlessly. 

"It's all right, Padawan," I hasten to assure him. "They're coming. They're almost here. I know it hurts; I know, but . . . ." 

_Let me go, Master . . . please._

I pause, but only briefly. "You know I can't do that, Padawan. Something like this - well, it's not supposed to happen like this. I won't let it happen like this. Someone with your promise; someone with your gifts, doesn't die because of an old, worn-out generator valve that just happens to explode at the exact moment when you're standing near it. A generator that wouldn't even have existed on this world if the commercial developers hadn't stripped this planet of its vegetation in order to maximize their harvest and left it vulnerable to these cyclones. A stupid, careless, useless accident; that's all it was, and I can't just let you go. You know that. No, don't look at me like that. You're going to be fine. They're almost here." 

_Where are we?_

"The building foundation collapsed under the force of the explosion and dropped us into the basement. It's not exactly cozy, but it's shelter - of a sort." 

_The children?_

"Frightened and singed a bit, but basically unharmed, I think. Their mother was close enough to drag them to safety. That was a very foolish thing you did, my young apprentice. Foolish - and very brave." 

_You're hurt._

I suppress a shudder. Even now, even fighting off screams with every fiber of his being - he senses my discomfort. "It's nothing," I murmur. "You should sleep." 

Again, those eyes - eyes that see too much and say too much and ask too much. 

_Please!_

"Don't be silly, Padawan. If the situation were reversed, would you let go?" 

_Yes._

"No, you wouldn't." 

Finally, his eyelids droop - but his voice in my head will not be silenced. _I love you enough._

I gather him close to me, careful to avoid putting pressure on the blackened, supurating abomination that is all that is left of his back and shoulders. A tremendous crash of thunder announces that the storm is not yet spent, that it still flourishes above us, venting primordial rage on the scoured landscape and the last few survivors of the races that once thrived here. 

"My padawan," I whisper, "will not die because of a stupid mistake. I won't have it; I won't allow it. They're coming; I can sense them. They're almost here." 

A fresh deluge of dirty water spouts from a broken wall behind us, and I twist to shield his body - his poor, broken, charred body - from the filth and infection it surely carries. A small, bubbly moan breaks from his lips, and I look down to study that precious face, just as a bright flash of lightening penetrates the deep gloom. I shake my head, and manage a small smile, marveling at the power of the mind to influence physical images. 

Surely it is the harshness of the light and the vividness of my own imagination that drains all trace of color from his face, except for lips that seem touched with icy blue. Again, his eyes stir, and he looks up at me. 

And I see it, but I will _not_ see it. His soul - that pure, loving, precious spirit that has never known greed or malice or malevolence - peers into my eyes and begs, without words. 

"Don't be like that, Obi-Wan. They will be here soon; we've almost made it. You can't give up when we've almost made it. Don't you even think about it. Do you hear me? Don't you leave me, Obi-Wan! Don't you dare!" 

I feel him struggle for a breath, and I send the Force surging into his body, and I tell myself it has strengthened him; and I ignore a tiny little voice that suggests that it is simply pouring through, like water through a sieve. 

There is water on my face now, from the storm, no doubt. What else? 

I look down at him as he sighs softly, and I hear the words in my mind. _Tired, Master._

And, finally, he sleeps, his head cradled against me, and I spend the rest of the time, as we await rescue, thinking about how wonderful it will be on the day when he kneels before me, so I can sever his padawan braid, and raise him to knighthood. My Obi-Wan. It will not be long, I know. He is almost ready now, and I know in my heart he will be my greatest achievement; he will be everything that I am not. 

My Obi-Wan. My legacy. 

The storm abates finally, and I can hear them at last. The rescue team moves quickly, using the Force to move aside the debris that buried us. 

When the last of it is pulled away, I look up, and somehow find it appropriate that the night sky is now crowded with sweeps of stars, and backlit by the azure and amethyst radiance of a nebula. The storm that came so quickly, and lashed out at the sweetness among us, is gone. The night is now very beautiful. 

"Careful there," I caution, as strong, firm arms wrap around him, preparatory to lifting him from this charred cradle into which we were thrown. "Don't hurt him." 

There are six in the rescue squad - Jedi teams, knights and padawans all. 

It is Knight Wehera Mol-jari who turns toward me at last, his face touched with great sorrow. "You needn't worry, Master Jinn. He is beyond all hurt now." 

For a moment, I hesitate. What can he . . . Then I smile. "No," I say firmly, "You don't understand. He's sleeping. He was very tired." 

"Master, he's . . ." 

"Sleeping," I repeat firmly. 

Of course, he's sleeping. He can't be otherwise; he can't be not sleeping. 

There are yet too many things I must say to him; too many promises I have yet to keep. 

I've never even told him how much he means to me, so he must be sleeping. 

He must be. 

The alternative doesn't bear consideration, for, if he were _not_ sleeping, if Fate, in its fickle randomness, had decided that this life - this precious life - should be drained away into nothingness, should cease to exist in this plane because of a stupid coincidence, then this would be a universe in which no justice could exist. If such goodness could be forfeit to the vagaries of the moment, then what would be the point of our existence? 

No! 

His eyes - bright with impudence, soft with tenderness, aglow with warmth - will open to the light of morning. 

He is sleeping. 

He _must_ be sleeping. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The End


End file.
